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Tuesday, October 16, 2012

BLURB:

They live among us. We know they are there. No government can control
them; no authority can stop them. Some are evil. Some are good. All are
powerful. They inhabit our myths and fairy tales. But what if they were real,
the witches, wizards, and fairy godmothers? What if they were called
"adepts" and were organized into guilds for mutual protection and benefit?
And what if some of them discovered a power that other adepts could not match.

During the turbulent 1960s, when American adept Peter Branton agrees
to go to Transylvania for the CIA, he suspects
it's not about ball bearings as he was told. What he finds is a plot that could
kill millions of people and plunge the world into eternal tyranny and
bloodshed. Branton doesn't know it, but he's about to face the adept guilds'
worst nightmare: practicing necromancers with a taste for human blood.

EXCERPT :

I'd never seen this type of meta
before. At least I assumed that's what it was, as the wooden man inexorably
walked toward me with a creak of moving wood, like tree branches in a heavy
wind. It was raising its arms for another blow so I stepped back and shot an
airbolt at it. I heard wood crack, but that didn't stop it. It swung again and
its wooden fist pounded into my face, knocking me down and back on the
sidewalk. Somewhere I heard screams and yells. A guy sitting on the sidewalk,
his back to a storefront, muttered, "Wow, bad trip, man."

The Indian was bending over, its face
expressionless except for the painted-on peace sign as it seemed to prepare for
another attack. I shot fire at it, assuming old dry wood would ignite easily,
and it did: the hippie dress went up in flames, and now the monster was a
burning mass, still attacking me. It smacked me again with a flaming arm and I
suffered from both the impact and the burns. Nearly screaming, I scrambled away
on hands and knees. I don't think I'd ever been that scared. Still it came,
oblivious to the fact it was on fire.

A motorcycle cop I hadn't noticed
jumped off his bike, pulled his service revolver, and shot it into the Indian
with six cracks of bullets being fired. It had no effect other than sending burning
splinters of wood flying. The cop suddenly looked frightened, and was gripping
his billy club but taking no further action.

People were screaming loudly now. I
looked around, looking for an escape. If I could teleport away I might escape,
but I could see no clear place to teleport to. Briefly I wondered what happened
to Ernestine and if she were safe. I didn't sense the presence of another
adept, but I didn't really have the ability to be quiet enough to do so. I just
hoped she was okay.

The burning Indian smacked me again,
hard, in the chest and I felt as if my feet left the ground as I was knocked
into a car's side. I heard and felt sheet metal crumple and knew I'd hit the
car hard. My vision was going gray. But I realized my shirt was on fire and that
kept me from passing out; if I passed out I was probably dead. I pulled water
from the air to douse the fire, but this took time and the Indian was on me
again, even though it was moving very slowly.

I wondered if I'd survive until the
wooden Indian had been consumed by the flames. It hit me again, knocking me to
the sidewalk. There was an unpleasant smell and I realized my hair was burning.
I used my bare hand to pat out the flames. This gave the Indian time to hit me
again, hard. It almost felt as if I flew through the air and was slapped
painfully to the sidewalk, the Indian still lumbering toward me.

In desperation I shot another airbolt
at it. It must have been on the verge of falling apart because that hit blew it
into flaming pieces that scattered over the street and also hit me, burning my
skin or singeing my clothes. But it was no longer attacking.